Dear Pyrex Bowl,

I thought we had a good thing going, you and I.  I mean, I know it was sort of a casual affair:  I’d ambitiously buy a bunch of fruit, you’d stoically hold on to it all until bananas grew soft and black; oranges’ peel became weird and leathery;  avocados gently sagged, abandoned.  You were a caretaker of forgotten fruits!  It was noble!

Every now and then I’d use you to hold rising dough, a tea towel draped over your simple form.  Those were the days, Pyrex Bowl!  Just you and me and a wad of olive-oiled focaccia dough sitting in the sunny window sill.  It was picturesque!

Then I would give you a cursory wash and leave you balanced on the wooden X-frame dish-drying rack, forgotten for a few days, at least until I came home with another sack of produce. It was domestic!

But today, Pyrex Bowl! Today!  Today you had to go and fuck me!  You had to leap, unprovoked, right off that wooden drying rack in a suicide attempt the theatrics of which had never before been seen.  You hit the floor and in a frightful reverberation YOU EXPLODED.  All over my floor!  Your bits flew from the sink to the floor to the living room rug and all the way to the front door. One piece of you embedded itself in my foot, another in the neighboring bookshelf.

You scared the bejesus out of me, Pyrex Bowl!  My heart paused for a bit too long.  You had my pets frozen in shock; you had me rushing through eighty-seven different evacuation plans so that no cat or dog would lose a toe to your treacherous, jagged, thumb-sized shards.  It was terrifying!

What a way to go out, Pyrex Bowl, you fucking histrionic drama queen!  You couldn’t, like, eat a bunch of ‘ludes or something?

I hope you’re happy.

Alfina the Lacerated